“Here now, Gabe,” the duke cut in irritably, “I have as much chance of beating her as Pinter does. I’m only behind by one brace.”
“I don’t care who beats her,” Gabe said. “Just make sure one of you does, in case I can’t catch up. She’ll pick the most expensive gun in Manton’s shop.”
“You’re such a pinchpenny, Gabe,” Celia teased as they tramped back over the field, headed toward the east end of the estate.
“That’s because I need every guinea I have, in case you don’t marry.”
The lord might have meant the comment as a joke, but clearly Celia didn’t take it that way. When the blood drained from her face, Jackson felt a stab of sympathy. He could understand why she wanted to show her family that she could find a decent husband. But decent was the operative word.
“Oh, I daresay Lady Celia will be married sooner than you think,” the duke remarked. When he slid a knowing glance at Celia and she smiled faintly, Jackson felt his heart drop.
The duke seriously had his eye on her. And apparently she knew it.
Confound it all.
As they stopped, Jackson began loading his gun with quick, efficient movements. That blasted duke could look all he wanted, but he was not marrying Celia.
Nor even getting another chance to kiss her. Not if Jackson had anything to say about it.
CELIA SHOT ANOTHER bird. She wasn’t fond of hunting, but the challenge of a moving target appealed to her. Unfortunately, she shouldn’t be rising to the challenge. She should let one of the gentlemen win their little wager and steal a kiss. That would help her cause far more than beating them.
But what if Mr. Pinter won? What if he kissed her as he had last night? It would be just the sort of thing he’d do, to put off her suitors by making it appear she had an interest elsewhere. That perhaps he had an interest in her, too.
Perhaps he does.
She snorted. The only interest he had was in ruining her life. He still hadn’t reported to her about her suitors. He would much rather be here, trying to upset all her plans, than doing his job.
He shot well, though. She’d give him that. The man knew his way around a firearm.
“So, my dear,” the duke said from the position he’d taken beside her after they’d had their refreshments, “you seem to have mastered the percussion gun fairly well.”
She debated how to answer as they tramped forward. Being careful of a man’s pride was more difficult than she’d expected. “Not as well as I’d like. There’s less delay in firing, so you have to aim differently, and sometimes I forget. What about you?”
“The same, though I could never have managed as well if I’d used it today. I’ll have to stop going back and forth between it and the flintlock. But I need more time to practice before I start using the percussion gun exclusively.”
“I need more practice myself,” she said.
“Perhaps we could practice together at Marsbury House sometime,” he said.
“I would enjoy that.” She ignored the niggle that said encouraging the duke’s suit was wrong when she wasn’t sure she wanted to marry him.
“Yes, Lady Celia always enjoys showing a man how to use his gun,” Mr. Pinter put in. “You couldn’t ask for a better tutor, Your Grace.”
When the duke stiffened understandably, she glared at Mr. Pinter. “His Grace needs no tutoring. He shoots quite well. And manages to remain civil at the same time, which is more than I can say for you, sir.”
Why was Mr. Pinter being so difficult? Bad enough that he’d goaded her into this competition—must he also make her suitors resent her? So far they’d taken her participation in this competition in stride, but if he kept provoking them …
Mr. Pinter scowled as they all halted to reload. “Civility is for you aristocrats.” His voice was sullen. “We mere mortals have no sense of it.”
“Then it’s a miracle anyone ever hires you to do anything,” she retorted. “Civility is the bedrock of a polite society, no matter what a man’s station.”
“I thought money was the bedrock,” he countered. “Why else does your grandmother’s ultimatum have all of you dashing about trying to find spouses?”
It was a nasty thing to say and he knew it, for he cast her a belligerent look as soon as the words left his mouth.
“I don’t know why you should complain about that,” she said archly. “Our predicament has afforded you quite a good chance to plump your own pockets.”
“Celia,” Oliver said in a low voice, “sheathe your claws.”
“Why? He’s being rude.”
The beaters flushed the grouse. Mr. Pinter brought down another bird, a muscle ticking in his jaw as they all fired. “I beg your pardon, my lady. Sometimes my tongue runs away with my good sense.”
“I’ve noticed.” She caught the gentlemen watching them with interest and forced a smile. “But since you were good enough to apologize, let us forget the matter, shall we?”
With a taut nod, he acknowledged her request for a truce.
After that, they both concentrated on shooting. She was determined to beat him, and he seemed equally determined to beat the other gentlemen. She tried not to dwell on why, but the possibility of another kiss from him made her nervous and excited.
As the end of the second hour of shooting approached, her hands grew clammy. While she and the others kept shooting, Oliver asked for a count from the gamekeeper. She and Mr. Pinter were still neck and neck, and the duke had dropped behind them by one more.
She heard a curse from Mr. Pinter and glanced his way. “What’s wrong?”
“Just a misfire, my lady,” he said tersely. “I believe I need a new gun.”
Should she go on? The others were, so she must, too, yet it seemed somehow unfair to take advantage of something that had nothing to do with his shooting ability. The servants hurried to provide him with a new flintlock, but he’d already lost ground.
When Oliver called time a few moments later, she’d beaten them all. But she’d beaten Mr. Pinter by only one bird.
“It appears, Lady Celia, that you’ve won a new rifle,” the duke said graciously.
“No,” she answered. They all stared at her. “It doesn’t seem sporting to win a challenge only because one of my opponents had a faulty firearm. Which we provided to him, by the way.”
“Don’t worry,” Mr. Pinter drawled. “I won’t hold the faulty firearm against you and your brothers.”
“That’s not the point. This should be fair, and it isn’t.”
“Then we’ll move forward,” Oliver said, “and let the servants flush the grouse again. Pinter can take one more shot. That’s probably all that the misfire delayed him by. If he misses, then you’ve won squarely. If he hits his target then it’s a tie, and we’ll decide on a tie breaker.”
“That seems fair.” She glanced over at Mr. Pinter. “What do you say, sir?”
“Whatever my lady wishes.” His eyes met hers in a heated glance.
She had the unsettling feeling that he referred to more than just the shooting. “Well, then,” she said lightly. “Let’s get on with it.”
The beaters headed forward to flush the grouse, but either because of where the grouse had last settled or because of the beaters’ position, the birds rose farther away than was practical.
“Damn it all,” Gabe muttered. “He won’t make a shot from here.”
“You can ignore this one, and we’ll have them flushed again,” Celia said.
But Mr. Pinter raised his gun to follow their flight. With a flash and the pungent smell of black powder igniting, the gun fired and white smoke filled the air. She saw a bird fall.
No, not one bird. He’d hit two birds with an impossible shot.
Her breath lodged in her throat. She’d hit two with one shot a few times, due to how they clustered and how well the birdshot scattered, but to do it at such a distance …
She glanced at him, astonished. No one had ever beaten her—and certainly not with such an am
azing shot.
Mr. Pinter gazed at her steadily as he handed off the gun to a servant. “It appears that I’ve won, my lady.”
Her mouth went dry. “It does indeed.”
Gabe hooted, pleased at having escaped buying her a rifle. The duke and the viscount scowled, while Devonmont just looked amused as usual.
All of that fell away as Mr. Pinter’s gaze dropped to her mouth.
“Well done, Pinter,” Oliver said, clapping him on the shoulder. “You obviously more than earned a kiss.”
For a moment, raw hunger flickered in his eyes. Then it was as if a veil descended over his face, for his features turned blank. He walked up to her, bent his head …
And kissed her on the forehead.
Hot color flooded her cheeks. How dared he kiss her last night as if she were a woman, and then treat her like a child in front of her suitors! Or worse, a woman beneath his notice!
“Thank heavens that’s done,” she said loftily, trying to retain some dignity.
The men all laughed—except Mr. Pinter, who watched her with a shuttered expression.
As the other gentlemen crowded round to congratulate him on his fine shot, she plotted. She would make him answer for every remark, every embarrassment of this day, as soon as she had the chance to get him alone.
Because no man made a fool of her and got away with it.
Chapter Nine
The rest of the afternoon seemed endless to Jackson, though it was probably only an hour or so. They ate more, drank more, and the gentlemen joked more. Celia was subdued, which seemed to rouse her suitors to flirt outrageously with her. Couldn’t they see she was angry? It didn’t take a crack investigator to notice the signs.
The problem was he didn’t know the reason for her anger, which seemed directed at him. It must be because he’d beaten her. She was definitely the sort to be a sore loser.
If he made a remark, she answered coldly, while she responded to the other gentlemen with a smile. He’d assumed that after last night, she would treat him a bit more warmly, but no such luck. It was starting to eat at him. After all, she was the one who’d insisted that he shoot again—it was her fault that he’d won.
Was it the kiss that had sparked her temper? No, how could that be? He’d kissed her with infinite politeness.
By the time the group trudged back across the estate toward the manor, he was in a foul mood. He didn’t care that he’d won, or that Gabe kept clapping him on the shoulder and praising his shooting, or that Stoneville asked his advice about estate matters. His entire attention was centered on the damned suitors who trailed after Celia like hungry wolves.
And on the damned female who bedeviled him with every smile she bestowed on the others. They didn’t deserve her smiles, and he meant to make sure she knew it.
The opportunity came more quickly than expected. They had just entered the east wing from the garden. The duke and the viscount were ahead of them, discussing Portuguese politics, while Gabe and Devonmont walked a bit behind them to talk about horse racing. Celia dragged her feet, prompting Jackson and Stoneville to do the same. When the others were well ahead, she stopped with a look of horror on her face.
“Oh dear, I believe I left my gun loaded. I was so distracted by Mr. Pinter’s success that I forgot. I must tell the servants at once.”
Stoneville’s eyes narrowed on her. “Are you sure? I can’t imagine your making such a mistake.”
“It’s that new percussion gun. I forgot about the cartridges; it’s truly awful of me. The servants won’t know how to handle it.” Her gaze shifted to Jackson. “Would you help me with it, Mr. Pinter? You’re probably best acquainted with how to unload these new guns.”
The veiled reference to his behavior the night before gave him pause, as did her look of challenge. “Certainly, my lady. I’m happy to help in any way.”
Stoneville glanced from her to Jackson. “Are you sure you need the help?”
“Of course. And Mr. Pinter deals with this sort of mishap daily, given the raw recruits he trains at Bow Street, so let him do what he does best.”
It wasn’t Jackson’s job to train anyone at Bow Street—there were underlings who did that—but since it rapidly became apparent that her ladyship’s “mishap” was just a ruse to enable them to speak privately, he played along. “Yes, a common occurrence.” He offered her his arm. “I can handle it well enough.”
“Thank you, Mr. Pinter,” she said as she curved her hand into the crook of his elbow.
He could feel his lordship’s eyes watching them as they headed down a different hall that led toward the servants’ quarters in another wing, but at least the man didn’t protest her purpose any further.
As soon as they were out of sight, she tugged him down an unlit passage. “This way. There’s a place where we can speak privately. No one ever comes here.”
He soon found himself in a secluded part of the manor. The musty scent and closed doors told him that the chambers hadn’t been opened in some time. Then she unlocked a door with a key that she kept on a chain around her neck and went inside.
The room was clearly an unused parlor, since all the furniture, save one settee and a writing table stacked with books, was protected from dust with white canvas covers. But the settee and table had been drawn up to the fireplace, and it was clear from the ashes in the hearth that a fire had been laid there not long ago. A short-handled broom nearby and a wool blanket completed the image of someone’s private retreat.
Hers.
“Don’t they give you a large enough sitting room, my lady?” he asked as she bent to ladle some coals into the hearth, then used a flint and some kindling to get a fire going.
She eyed him from beneath lowered lashes. “You have no idea what it’s like to be surrounded by a family like mine. We have enough space for a hundred guests, yet everyone seems determined to stay in the same ten rooms. My family doesn’t know the meaning of privacy.”
Straightening, she turned to face him. “Sometimes I just want to get away from them all. Especially lately, with Gran breathing down my neck about marrying. Sometimes I go shooting, and sometimes…” She shrugged.
“You come here to hide.”
Her eyes glittered at him. “Escape. It’s not the same.”
He went over to the table and picked up a book, then smiled at the title: Ammunition: A Descriptive Treatise. He went through the others—Instructions to Young Sportsmen in All that Relates to Guns and Shooting, The Shooter’s Companion … and oddly enough, a book called Emma.
When that one made him raise his gaze to her in question, she colored. “Don’t tell Minerva about that. She won’t be happy to hear I’m reading a novel by a woman she considers her competitor, even though the authoress is dead.”
“I wouldn’t dream of mentioning it. Though I’m surprised that you read novels.”
“I do have other interests than shooting, you know.”
“I never said otherwise.”
“But you think me a complete tomboy. Admit it.”
He measured his words. “I think you a woman with a few unusual interests that happen to be similar to those of some men. Those interests don’t, however, make you a tomboy.”
No tomboy would fire his blood the way she did right now in her elegant redingote, despite the black smudges of powder along its sleeves and the mud caked along its hem. And no tomboy would have kept him up last night imagining what it would be like to raise her skirts so he could run his hands along the pale swaths of thigh that lay above her garters.
“And yet,” she said hoarsely, “you kissed me as if I were some mannish chit beneath your notice. God forbid you should treat me as a desirable woman in front of my suitors. It might give them ideas.”
He stared at her, thunderstruck. She was angry because he’d accorded her the respect she deserved? “Forgive me, my lady,” he said acidly. “I didn’t think you’d want me to toss you down in the grass and ravish you. I see I was mistaken.”
&
nbsp; Two spots of color appeared on her cheeks. “There is a vast space between ravishing me and treating me like a child. The gentlemen expected you to kiss me on the lips, as they would have. You won such a kiss, after all. When you didn’t take it, I’m sure they thought it was because I was somehow … unattractive to you. And that only hurts my cause.”
Her cause, which was to be affianced to one of those arses. Anger boiled up in him. “Let me see if I understand you correctly. You wanted me to kiss you with some degree of passion so your suitors would be convinced of your desirability as a woman. Is that right?”
She cast him a resentful look, then nodded.
He strode up close, unable to contain his temper. “Isn’t it enough for you that they’re already barking at your heels like randy hounds? That they’re seizing your hand at the breakfast table and inviting you for tête-à-tête practice sessions at their estates?”
“What good does that do me when you seek to turn their affections away at every turn? You provoked me to accept that shooting challenge because you wanted me to frighten them off with my enthusiasm for guns. Admit it.”
All right, so that was true. But he had good reasons for it. “I wanted them to see you for who you really are and not for the woman you keep pretending to be.”
“Pretending to be?” she said in a choked voice. “And who is that? A lady worthy of marriage? You wanted to expose me as some … adventuress or man in woman’s attire or … oh, I don’t know what.”
“No!” he protested, suddenly all at sea in their argument.
“You know what, Mr. Pinter? Ever since we made our agreement, you’ve only made matters worse, for some nefarious reason of your own.” She planted her hands on her hips and gave him a look of pure defiance. “So you’re dismissed from my employ. I no longer require your services.” With her head held high, she strode for the door.
Hell and blazes, he wouldn’t let her do this! Not when he knew what was at stake.
“You don’t want to hear my report?” he called out after her.
She paused near the door. “I don’t believe you even have a report.”
“I certainly do, a very thorough one. I’ve only been waiting for my aunt to transcribe my scrawl into something decipherable. Give me a day, and I can offer you names and addresses and dates, whatever you require.”
A Lady Never Surrenders Page 10